Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I (54 page)

“Nothing for myself.” He bowed his head. “Grant this boon instead to Erasmus.”

A furrow formed between Father’s brow, but he said only, “As you wish.”

Erasmus laughed. “You know already what I desire. Our staffs! Had they been with us, instead of moldering away at our mansion in Scotland, we could have forced the salamanders to retreat. We could have saved the London we have known and loved these many years!”

“So be it.” Father inclined his head gravely. “I retain the right to collect them again when I deem fit, but they shall be yours for a time.”

We children gave a resounding cheer, and finished our Christmas feast in high spirits. As it turned out, Father would only let us keep the staffs for a decade before he collected them again, but we did not know this at the time. So the rest of the evening rang with comradery and good cheer.

In retrospect, the memory of this joyful Christmas was accompanied by a sense of bittersweet sorrow. At all Christmases after this one, either one of us was not present or some members of the family were feuding. The year 1666 was the last happy Christmas we all spent together.

THE
door at the far end of the sauna opened, dispelling the ghosts of Christmas past. Three tall dark-haired men strode into the chamber. As my gaze penetrated the obscuring steam, I sat up, startled. We were being joined by three of the lords of the High Council: the elf lords Vandel, Carbonel, and Delling.

The stately elves did not glance in our direction. They spoke to each other in their soft lilting tongue while they unbelted their long black robes and let them drop to the floor, revealing lithe golden bodies which were . . . entirely unclad.

I glanced away and kept my eyes averted until the elven lords were safely immersed in the water at the far side of the pool. Mab had inched closer to me, as had a subdued Mephisto. The three of us huddled on the drowned steps set into the pool wall and wondered whether the elven lords realized we were present.

I peered through the steam to get a better look at the wet elves. Lord Vandel’s back was to me. Along his golden shoulder blades ran identical scars, the shape of upside down teardrops. As Lord Carbonel fell back to dunk his head beneath the water and rose again, shaking a spray of drops from his long hair with catlike grace, I saw a similar set of scars marred his otherwise perfect back.

“Mab,” I whispered softly, “those scars. What are they?”

Mab looked, then turned away, grief stricken. “That’s where their wings were cut off, Ma’am . . . when they fell.”

We were to feast with elves!

The great hall was even more splendidly arrayed than it had been in the morning. Holly decked the doorways, and garlands of pine boughs, bound with red ribbons and hung with silver bells, decorated the walls and snaked their way about the back of each chair. Red-and-green-leaved poinsettias, as tall as small trees, stood here and there in giant pots covered in red foil. In the center of the hall, between the tables, stood a fifteen-foot blue spruce draped with tinsel and colored ornaments. Amidst its branches, a hundred shell-shaped oil lamps burned brightly, their lights twinkling against the glass of the ornaments.

The long oak tables were laden with delicacies. Tall green candles in gold candelabra burned brightly amidst overflowing dishes of roast beef, turkey, venison, wild boar, grilled salmon, and hunks of juicy baked ham. Mince pies and steaming bowls of candied sweet potato surrounded the meats, along with platters of breads, various cheeses, fresh fruit, and an array of unfamiliar elvish delicacies. Wooden troughs held large salads of fresh vegetables and herbs, and armies of porcelain pitchers offered a variety of dressings.

The merry company was decked out in their finest furs and satins, as was our little party of three. Mab, who had not brought any finery with him, was garbed in a handsome outfit of green and black velvet that had been loaned to him by some helpful elf. He wore it now, despite his complaints that he would feel more comfortable in his trench coat and fedora, and it suited him well. As for Mephisto, he was dressed in a splendid doublet and hose of blacks, greens, and rich earthy browns. Where he had gotten it, or what denizen of what supernatural abode had helped him to don it, I did not ask.

Garments had also been left for me: a Victorian gown with a dark green velvet bodice trimmed with silver satin, velvet panniers, and a skirt of jade
green crêpe de Chine. A lovely concoction, and I longed to wear it. Were events to go awry, however, I would never have forgiven myself for having put aside the protections of my enchanted tea-dress while dining with elves. Reluctantly, I declined it. I did, however, put on the jewelry that had been provided: drooping emerald earrings, a matching necklace, and a set of jade hair combs.

A lovely elf maiden led us through the labyrinth of scents and noises to our seats at Father Christmas’s table. I was amazed, considering the august company present, when she placed us just to the right of our host—until I recalled that in elven protocol the most important figures sat at the center of the table, across from each other, while individuals of lesser worth spread out to either side, according to their station. By elven standards, the three of us were relegated to the table edge, a position of obscurity. Still, by Europe an standards, sitting just beside our host put us at the head of the table. Determined to have a pleasant evening, I interpreted our position in the more favorable light.

Father Christmas wore an even more ornate version of the red and green velvet robes we had seen him in earlier that afternoon. At the far end of the table sat his wife, her jolly red face beaming with smiles, and a gown of autumn colors garbing her plump body. She waved to Mab and me as we took our seats, welcoming us cheerfully.

At the center of our table sat Alastor, the elf king, his antlers towering above the crowns of his lords. To either side of him sat the lords of the High Council. Lesser elves of note filled in the rest of the seats, save for ours and six seats across from the king, which had been left empty for the queen and her attendants. I noted with uncomfortable dismay that no place had been saved for Astreus. Apparently, he was not expected.

It disturbed me to sup with elves, so firmly had I been schooled in the evils of accepting fairy food. I knew the fare came from our host and hostess, and even Mab did not fear accepting food from Father Christmas. Yet I found the company so unnerving, I almost requested we be allowed to sit at the next table with the ice sprites and gnomes, both creatures whose natures I comprehended better than that of the cruel, quixotic, whimsical elves. But that would place us below the salt, a position inappropriate for our rank and station. Besides, the elves had been such pleasant company during the one occasion we had encountered them previously. Perhaps I worried needlessly.

Mab inclined his head toward me to make some comment, but his
words were lost beneath a fanfare of trumpets. The queen of the elves and her ladies had arrived.

The elven queen glided between the tables. Layers of chestnut, white, and cream gossamer draped her lithe body, forming a high-waisted gown with long flowing sleeves and skirts which rustled as she moved. Her bearing was elegant and regal, but her face was that of a sixteen-year-old girl-child, delicate and fresh. Strings of diamonds, glittering like dew, decorated her auburn hair—or perhaps they were strings of dew that sparkled like diamonds. A golden tiara framed her lovely childlike face and glittered in the candlelight.

Behind her came her ladies, each fairer than the last. Fragile layers of moss green and sea blue draped Undine’s slender form, and lilies adorned her blue-green hair. Behind her came graceful Sylvie, living butterflies perched upon her silvery locks. Lengths of sky blue, ice blue, and the purple of a brewing storm fluttered around her svelte body as she flowed forward. Floramel followed her, in a gown the color of orange blossoms, rose petals, and lilacs. Her dark locks were woven with exotic orchids. Gloriana’s gown imitated living fire, as tissue-thin layers of red, orange, and candle-flame yellow flickered around her fair form. Her crimson hair was arrayed with columbines, bird-of-paradise flowers, and wine-red roses. Last came the incomparable Iolantha, the gentlest and most compassionate of the elf queen’s ladies, dressed in gossamer of white and gold, her chestnut hair adorned with dogwood flowers.

As the elf queen and her retinue came forth through the hall, all rose. Mab, Mephisto, and I rose as well, and stood politely as they seated themselves. The elf queen took her seat, and regarded the gathered company with gracious mirth, her dark eyes sparkling as she prepared to speak. Then her eyes fell upon us, and all amusement died.

“Must we dine with Aftercomers?” she demanded archly in her sweet voice, her childish face stern beyond its apparent years. “Alastor, have them sent forth!”

I sat down abruptly, wishing I had sat among the ice sprites after all. Once, long, long ago, I had been thrown out of a feast. The humiliation still rankled, especially when I recalled the grating laughter of the French courtiers, how they had made merry over our plight as Father and I were dragged out, and dumped into the dirty straw outside the feast hall. It was soothing to remember that time had outstripped them, and they were all dead now. That succor would never heal this wound, should we be shamed before the immortal elven
court. The elf queen had been charming to us the one night we had met under hill. I had not anticipated this reaction.

The king of the elves laughed. “What report will be given of our hospitality if we turn guests away during a blizzard, dear queen? Our host’s guests at that? We can hardly refuse them seats at our host’s own table.”

“The girl then, but not him!” Queen Maeve pointed at Mephisto.

“Whyever not? How is he different from any other mayfly?” King Alastor’s tone seemed solicitous, yet his gray eyes danced with cruel merriment. Queen Maeve drew herself up, her dark eyes snapping.

Before she could speak, Father Christmas’s deep voice boomed across the table. “He is my guest.”

“Well and good, then, we shall move.” The queen started to rise, halted, paused, then sat again. Her color high, she stated flatly, “I shall not impose upon my subjects by asking them to trouble themselves. We shall remain, and endure.”

I focused my attention intently upon my plate, determined not to smirk. The events that had just transpired had not been lost upon me. The queen had begun to rise, but the king had not. Uncertain how many courtiers would follow her should she depart, she had decided that it was better to eat with Aftercomers than to risk losing a contest with the king over the loyalty of the court.

I was grateful for Father Christmas’s support. Our host’s open blessing and the tacit approval of the elven king, however, were not enough to buy us acceptance. None of the elven courtiers seated nearby spoke a word to us or even acknowledged our presence. Rather than make a fool of myself by attempting to discourse with them, I turned my attention to our host and listened with pleasure to his amusing retelling of the highlights of his escapades the previous night as he delivered this year’s gifts.

Snatches of conversation floated down our way. The elf lords spoke of battles fought and cruel games played upon unwary adversaries. Ivaldi described a journey into the bowels of the earth, the gem-studded splendor he had encountered, and a game of hurling played against the Nibelungs. Valendur, Carbonel, and Aundelair described conquering the unconquerable peak of Koshtra Belorn, and of what glory they had beheld while standing upon the icebound top of the world. Vandel told of a furious battle between a thousand of his best knights and the Sun. One by one his knights had fallen, until he stood alone. Yet, he had dealt the Sun a grievous blow before surrendering the field. Delling spoke of a fabulous pleasure palace of flower petals and thistledown
held together by cobwebs and morning dew, while Fincunir entertained the king by recounting a chess game he had played against a mortal who thought himself invincible because he took his instructions from a machine.

Across the table, Floramel and Sylvie delighted the queen with tales of a changeling boy they had stolen and taught the elven arts of raising mushroom rings and calling fireflies; while Undine and Gloriana entertained with stories of their star-crossed mortal lovers, and of tricks they played upon the Wayfarers. Iolanthe recounted a conversation she had overheard between an angel and a water nymph.